The Darkest Hour
by Ariana Paris
Summary: Set during 3x25 "An Invisible Thread". Sylar gives Claire one more reason to hate him. Warning: non-con pwp


"Have you ever stopped to think about how much we have in common, Claire?" he asked, pushing a glass of wine towards her.

Sitting on a divan in the luxurious suite at the Stanton Hotel, paralysed by Sylar's power, Claire gritted her teeth. The answer was, of course, "no". In fact, she had spent a good deal of the past year trying very hard not to think about Sylar at all.

Sylar had first terrorised Claire when she was just sixteen, but the past year had been particularly traumatic. He had carved her head open to obtain her ability, caused the death of her biological mother, and even tried to turn Claire into a murderer in the course of a twisted game of cat and mouse at Primatech.

But that was all in the past now. Claire had survived each ordeal, becoming a little harder and less caring each time. In a perverse way, she recognised that Sylar had made her stronger. He had also made her eager to see him dead. In fact, the whole reason Claire had come here with him was so she could make a difference and contribute to his end.

Claire had even felt a thrill of anticipation when she saw 'Nathan' writing his name with his left hand at the front desk and realised that this was Sylar in disguise. With her adoptive father only a phone call away, Claire wanted to keep an eye on Sylar and had followed him meekly to this hotel suite.

Sylar had soon realised that Claire knew who he was, but he had done little with the knowledge other than reveal his presence to her father -- thus ensuring that some attempt would be made to stop him -- and manipulate Claire into opening a bottle of wine.

He seemed to be using Doyle's puppetry skill to move Claire about like a doll. She wondered if Sylar had killed Doyle, though she found it difficult to feel sorry if that was the case. Sylar was a dangerous psychopath, but for some reason, he failed to imbue the manipulation with quite the level of creepiness that Eric Doyle had possessed. In any case, she knew that Sylar wasn't interested in her; he was just using her to get at her family and further his aim of taking over the presidency.

Sylar already had her power. Claire was indestructible. There was nothing else he could do to her.

Sylar rose from his seat, and was pacing now, his lanky frame outlined against the window. He had moved on from making pointless threats about her family -- including the dog, for crying out loud -- and seemed more interested in talking about supposed parallels between Claire and himself.

"You were adopted. I was adopted," he said, warming to the topic. "You can't die..."

Sylar waved a finger at Claire, forcing her to drink from the glass in front of her. She winced at the unfamiliar, bitter taste of wine. Sylar sat down beside her on the divan, his black eyes fixed on her intently.

"...I can't die," he concluded, clinking his glass with hers.

"Oh, you can die." Claire channelled all her loathing into her voice, half smiling at the thought of being rid of him. "I'll make sure of it."

Sylar's mouth twisted into a begrudging smile as he forced her to take another sip. Claire stared at the vile concoction in the glass and wondered why anyone would willingly drink this stuff, let alone consider it a superior beverage to, say, the tequila she had drunk in Mexico.

Sylar certainly seemed to buy into the whole wine mystique. He was breathing in the aroma like a dying man gasping at a mask of oxygen; a crude, overblown gesture no doubt intended to show Claire how sophisticated he was. Perhaps he saw himself as some kind of refined Hannibal Lecter now, and not whatever pathetic lowlife he had been before he started murdering people for their abilities.

"You'll get bored," said Sylar in a low, calm voice. "After like a hundred years of trying to off me, watching all of your loved ones drop like flies. You may eventually come to forgive me."

He moved closer, his hand cupping the back of her head, and for one horrible moment, Claire thought he was going to kiss her. A cold feeling of dread filled her veins as she realised just how powerless she was. For the first time since Sylar had revealed himself, Claire felt genuinely afraid.

"Maybe you'll even love me," said Sylar softly, though he didn't lean in to kiss her as she had feared.

In spite of her relief, Claire's heart was still hammering wildly, and she made no effort to conceal her hatred. "I'll keep trying to kill you," she said. "For the rest of my life."

"Well, everybody needs a hobby," said Sylar.

He sounded disappointed and leaned over to take another sip of wine. Then a thought seemed to occur to him; he turned eagerly towards her. "I mean, I'm not saying there aren't bridges that need to be built." He stroked her hair. "But if we start building them now... Who knows?"

Oh God. He really was making a move on her. Claire closed her eyes as he traced her cheekbone with the back of his hand. This just could not be happening.

Claire had never imagined that Sylar was attracted to her. At least, not in her lucid, waking hours; she remembered one particularly vivid dream on a similar topic after Sylar had subdued her and opened her head in her parents' living room.

Sylar moved close enough for his breath to tickle her skin.

"You could be my first First Lady," he purred.

Claire clenched her teeth and wished he would move away. "You'll never have me in a million years."

"Actually, I could have you in the next five minutes," he said, his tone quiet and menacing.

Claire shivered involuntarily. Sylar was still sitting incredibly close, his ugly, narrow face just inches away from hers. Claire closed her eyes, trying to block out the amusement in his black eyes, but she could still smell him; the wine on his breath, the gel in his hair, the unfamiliar, alien scent of a human male.

"My dad will be here very soon," she said through clenched teeth.

"Hmm." The low sound made Claire's skin crawl. "I wonder. Would that be the dad who can _fly_, or the dad who's just really good at kidnapping people and experimenting on them?" When Claire didn't answer, Sylar continued. "Or are you hoping your uncle the power sponge will take one of my abilities and do something useful with it? You know he can only absorb one at a time, right, and I guess he'll need your ability as well as one of mine if he's going to survive. On the whole, I think the odds are in my favour."

And then, unexpectedly, Sylar's lips were soft on her cheek, a Judas kiss that made her shiver with its gentleness and the promise of violence to follow.

"But if you're real nice to me," he said in a gravely voice, "I might let one of them live."

Claire said the rudest thing she could think of, the only adequate expression of the fear, anger and contempt she felt at that moment.

"Yeah, that's pretty much where I'm going with this," said Sylar with delight. "Won't that mess with Daddy Bennet's head!"

Still paralysed, Claire could do nothing as Sylar forced her to turn her face towards him. She felt like screaming, not just at Sylar for wanting to do this to her, but at the entire, unfair universe for giving her the power of regeneration and then apparently tattooing Victim all over her, so that bastards like Sylar always seemed to get their way. But Claire remained silent; she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Claire had a fleeting view of Sylar's swarthy face closer to hers than it had ever been before; the smoothness of the skin on his cheekbones contrasting with the hint of stubble on his jaw, his black eyes intense under those large, strangely elongated eyebrows, his full lips approaching hers as she sat completely helpless.

Sylar tilted her head upwards and pressed his mouth to hers a little gingerly, as if he had forgotten that Claire was in his power. His tongue tasted of wine as it slid into her mouth. Claire was disgusted at him for forcing this on her, but even more at herself when she had to fight the irrational instinct to respond. Sylar wasn't West and he wasn't Alex. Claire's tongue was one of the only muscles she still had control over, and she kept it still as Sylar probed her mouth.

No doubt dissatisfied with her unresponsive kiss, Sylar moved his lips onto her cheek, making her shiver with the unfamiliar touch. She felt something soft and damp trace the contour of her jaw. Before she could process the thought that this sick pervert had just _licked_ her, Claire moaned as he kissed her neck.

Sylar's movements were more awkward than Claire would have expected from a man his age. He fumbled with her clothes and Claire caught her breath involuntarily when he pulled up her sweater and camisole. Like his lips, his hand felt surprisingly soft on her skin, his touch light and not entirely unpleasant as he slid his hand under her bra.

Sylar was breathing heavily, his breath unbearably ticklish on her sensitive neck. It sent shivers down Claire's spine and made her realise that she had to do something, anything, to make this stop.

"You want me to love you, so you're going to _rape_ me?" she said.

Sylar pulled away to look at her face. His eyes were hooded, his lips parted, his entire familiar face taken by his desire for her. But then his expression turned sardonic and he raised one of his bushy eyebrows with amusement.

"I figure since you hate me anyway..." he said with a wicked grin.

Sylar kissed her lips again briefly before returning to his observation of her face. Claire was horrified to feel the pressure of her jeans lessen on her waist as he unfastened them with his mind. He slid his hand inside her underwear, and Claire was unable to suppress a groan. The delight on Sylar's face made her feel sick.

"Well. I _think_ you hate me, anyway. But you sure as hell _want_ me."

"I don't want you," she spat out, though she had to stifle another moan as he moved his hand.

Sylar's black eyes gazed at her intently for a moment, and she wondered if he had acquired the ability to read minds. "That's what you believe," he said breathlessly, "but I think you're wrong."

Sylar stroked her harder, pulling her head forward for a more forceful kiss. For one horrible, interminable moment, Claire felt her body responding to his touch, sexual desire sweeping away the knowledge of who was doing this to her. She had never wanted Sylar; no one could want a man who had killed dozens, terrorised countless more, who had tried repeatedly to murder her family, who had just threatened to kill her kin and in the same breath asked her to love him.

And yet Claire tried not to moan as his fingers moved deeper, far too easily, far too gently too. No one had ever touched her like this, and she knew that it would only take a little longer for her to lose control and offer him a humiliating display of his victory over her.

Fortunately for Claire's pride, Sylar seemed to lack both the patience and knowledge of female anatomy necessary to complete the task. He suddenly stopped stroking her and broke the kiss, concentrating instead on removing her jeans and panties completely, moving rapidly and with less of the care he had been demonstrating so far. Perhaps he had simply realised that with her family on their way, he was running out of time.

Sylar made Claire lie down on the couch and lowered himself onto her, his face serious as he unfastened his slacks. He pulled one of her bare thighs up against his hip, positioning himself between her legs. The panic Claire had felt earlier gripped her again as she realised that he really intended to go through with this.

"Sylar, don't do this to me," she begged, trying to sound strong, and not like the scared teenage girl she was. "Please. I don't... I haven't..."

"Don't worry," he said gently, but without compassion. Claire was unsettled by the playful look on his ugly face as he brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. "You'll heal anyway, my little houri. A virgin forever."

Claire winced at that gross thought as Sylar kissed her again. He had released his telekinetic hold on her, but had her trapped beneath his weight. Even though she knew it was futile, Claire bit down hard as he slid his tongue into her mouth, and Sylar pulled back with a yelp of pain. In spite of her dire situation, Claire felt a jolt of satisfaction and almost smiled.

Sylar wiped the blood from his mouth and laughed, though he did pull away sufficiently for Claire to get her hands against his chest. She pushed him off and sat up on the divan, her bare legs on either side of him. Out of breath from the exertion and the irrational desire that had all but left her, Claire tried very hard not to look in the direction of his unfastened trousers.

"Shit, you look amazing," he murmured, staring at her naked skin with undisguised lust. "But I don't think we have much time."

Claire was thrown by the casual way in which he said it, as if she had been a willing partner all along. Or maybe the thought that she had managed to make him stop made her feel invulnerable. Or more likely, Sylar had acquired the power of persuasion from some gruesome murder and was using it to lower her resistance. It certainly wasn't anything to do with the inexplicable desire she had felt when he touched her...

But when Sylar lunged at her again, Claire didn't try to stop him.

She came to her senses almost immediately, as soon as she felt his weight on her, and the rough fabric of the divan rubbing against her bare buttocks. But by then, she was trapped and all she could do was moan in frustration at her stupidity. Claire winced and gritted her teeth as he tore into her, but didn't cry out at the momentary pain that faded almost immediately as she healed.

"You really do heal fast," murmured Sylar, closing his eyes for a moment as he shifted his hips more slowly. Claire tried not to think about how he had noticed the healing process.

This would have been an ideal moment to kill him, Claire realised, but Sylar had her pinned to the divan and the closest potential weapon -- her wine glass -- was out of reach on the coffee table.

When Sylar opened his eyes again, Claire did the only thing she could do. She kept her gaze fixed on his, to show that he could not break her spirit; that she was not going to be a coward and look away. She half hoped that holding his gaze would shame him into stopping again, but if anything, it drove him on. Sylar's black eyes seemed to bore into her, intensifying the sensation of his movements. He made no further attempt to kiss her, leaning up on his arms, his face serious, all his attention focused on her.

Looking up at Sylar, overwhelmed by the sensation of his body on hers, of him _inside_ her, Claire found herself hoping that her rescue would not arrive immediately. The harm was done; whether Sylar was allowed to complete the act or not, he had succeeded in raping her. Claire did not want her family subjected to the ordeal of actually seeing it happen.

The thought of that particular humiliation made her feel dizzy. Claire grabbed the fabric of Sylar's shirt to steady herself as her head hit the soft arm of the divan. She realised to her horror that the build up she had felt when he was fondling her had returned. She wondered briefly whether Sylar was using one of his many powers, and gritted her teeth, reminding herself of who he was and all the terrible things he had done to her -- including the terrible thing he was doing to her right now -- but it didn't seem to help. If anything, the idea that she, Claire Bennet, heroic cheerleader and spotless daughter of the Petrelli family, could possibly desire Sylar, the slimiest, cold-hearted super-powered mass murderer in existence made her feel... made her feel... She couldn't even concentrate on the thought.

Claire closed her eyes to block out Sylar's inquisitive stare. She tried hard to let nothing appear on her face, clawed at his greasy hair and ill-shaven features to make it stop, but just couldn't control her reaction to the sudden, intense sensation that coursed through her, couldn't stifle the mewling noise that fought its way past her lips.

Sylar collapsed on her, his breath hot on her bare neck, his long body unbearably heavy. Claire pushed at him angrily and he moved off her, hastily rearranging his clothes as he glanced at her watch. Following his gaze, Claire realised that the whole ordeal had lasted no more than five minutes.

She was still looking at her watch when a towel landed in her lap.

"You might want to freshen up. The cavalry could be here any minute."

Claire looked up at Sylar. He was standing now, his hand still extended from making the towel fly towards her. It was a thin piece of cloth; looking behind Sylar, Claire realised it had come from a bucket of champagne in the corner of the room. Glancing down, Claire realised he was right; she needed to get clean and dressed before her family saw her like this.

Sylar apparently didn't feel the need to turn away as she wiped herself with the towel. Humiliated and furious, Claire threw it back at him, stained and soiled. Sylar tossed it onto the coffee table and disintegrated it with a glance.

"Weird how things work out," said Sylar with a nauseating grin. "Some guys spend their lives fantasising about having a virgin. I get three in a row!"

"Congratulations," said Claire bitterly, standing to pull up her jeans. "Guess you can add deflowering virgins to your collection of gruesome habits."

"Hmm." There was a wicked glint in Sylar's eye. "At least I'm good at it, right?"

Claire felt the blood rush to her face. "Don't flatter yourself," she hissed. "I was imagining what it'll be like when I finally kill you."

Sylar seemed disappointed by her threat. "Well, maybe next time, I will let you kill me first. Could be intense," he said with a flick of his eyebrow.

"You're pathetic," said Claire, struggling to find something to say that would hurt him. "I bet you think about your Mom when you're doing it."

It was a dumb, childish thing to say, but Claire was pleased to see Sylar's playful expression turn dark. She didn't even see him raise his hand. One minute, she was standing in front of him, and the next, she was flying through the open door of the hotel suite, crashing into a vase in the hall.

Peter and Nathan were standing there, staring at her. She could hardly believe how relieved she was that they hadn't arrived just two minutes earlier. But their confusion at her sudden ejection from the room was giving Sylar time to prepare for their confrontation. Claire could see him levitating in the middle of the room, Elle's blue electricity charging in his hands.

"Go!" she yelled.

* * * * *

The flames flickered around his swarthy face, and Claire realised this was the last time she would see him. She was glad, of course. He had murdered her mother, terrorised her and her family, raped her, assaulted her... But it was strange to realise that it was all over now.

"I can't believe he's really dead," she said.

"He's really dead, Claire," said her adoptive father. "He really is."

Claire stared at the body in the flames. His clothes had caught fire, the synthetic material igniting with a bright, eerie light. Sylar's face looked calm in repose, as if finally at peace after all the deceptions and gruesome crimes of his shortened life. Claire noticed for the first time that Sylar had been a handsome man. Then flames engulfed his face and she lowered her eyes as her father led her away.

Nathan smiled at her and she smiled back.

She decided that she would never tell her family what had happened. Not because she knew that for one brief, crazy moment, she had actually wanted Sylar. But because even though Claire could bear the private humiliation of being Sylar's victim, she didn't want to face the guilt and anguish of her loved ones as they realised how they had failed to protect her.

No, they would never need to know, and over the next few months, she almost convinced herself that it hadn't happened, that the darkest moment of her last encounter with Sylar was just another of her crazy fantasies, that everything was all right in her life now he no longer existed, that the sickness she felt some mornings was just nerves as she prepared for her new life at college.


End file.
